The Empty Poem

The beam of darkness slices the sheets
of light underneath our hearts
and makes a home
where shouldn’t be one.

Our still hearts get displaced
shifting a little inside the hollow ribcage
getting swallowed by a black hole,
becoming one with us
into nothingness.

Our crisp bones,
twist and turn
under the weight of our agony
breaking and falling like autumn leaves.
They ache with the noises,
our eyes trace silence
making a trail of dead hearts and silent souls,
just bodies craving little pleasures.

I think we are not at the right place,
where the shape of sunlight
reminds us of the emptiness within;
the light of stars cuts through our skin,
the smell of winters clings with our body,
to remind us of our futility,
telling us how we need to complete ourselves.

We rejoice under the impression of fullness,
seeking satisfaction in all our dismay
hiding behind morning newspapers and mobile screens,
inducing thoughts and physical inertia,
thinking that ideas can change the world.
The world laughs at the man in his chair,
the boy in his teens brimming with immobile passion,
a woman in the kitchen
dreaming of life other than marriage and children.
All critiquing one another
to appear virtuous by hiding their vices.

The beam of darkness slices the sheets
of light underneath our hearts
and makes a home
where shouldn’t be one.